One of Our Number
by capjack54
Summary: A close-to-home case reveals some serious secrets from the past that were perhaps better left unsaid... DISCONTINUED for now.
1. NotSoAverage Day at the Office

**1. Not-So-Average Day at the Office**

The computer gave a satisfied sigh and a beep of farewell as it shut off. Snatching his keys off the desk, Danny grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and began to make his way out of the maze of darkened cubicles that made up the Missing Persons Division of the FBI. He was three feet from the door when something caught his eye. Brow wrinkling, he backtracked, staring with confusion at what he'd spotted.

The bags under Martin's eyes were deep in the glow from his computer screen, deeper than Danny had ever seen them. Three or four empty mugs and the smell of fermenting coffee surrounded his partner, giving him the impression he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon. With a sigh, Martin set his pencil down on his desk and rubbed his eyes, massaging his temples as if suffering from a headache- not an unlikely story. He jumped when Danny's voice broke the silence.

"And they say I'm the one who breathes caffeine."

Collecting himself, Martin gave a weak grin. "Hey."

Walking over, Danny scanned the computer screen, recognizing the format of a medical file. "What're you still doing here?"

With a movement surprisingly fast for his seemingly half-conscious state, Martin closed out of the program before his partner could see. "Nothing. It's nothing. I just wanted to… check some things out." He rubbed at his eyes again, then gestured at Danny. "Why are you here?"

"You know me. I'm nocturnal." Danny's grin faded. "You okay? You seemed a little off today."

For a moment, Martin hesitated, a mix between pain and fear making it into his eyes. Then the emotion faded, and he waved the question off. "Yeah, sure. I'm fine."

Danny, too, held his position for an extra second, regarding Martin with concern. "Do you need a ride?"

Thinking for a minute, Martin shot him one of those smiles that melted hearts… and opened mouths. "Sure. That'd be great."

Twenty minutes later, they were cruising down one of the back roads of southern Manhattan to Martin's apartment. Both of them were silent, though the rain pounding on the windshield seemed to have quite a bit to say. Martin shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, staring out the window into the dark with a dead expression. Danny spoke as quietly as he could without losing his voice to the rain.

"Seriously, what's up with you? You didn't even talk to Sam today, and don't think I don't know about that, because I do, and it seems to me as if something's eating you."

Turning his head to stare at his partner for a moment, Martin sighed. "It's nothing. It's just… something with my father." He paused, and then looked back out the window. "I'm trying to open a case on him."

The cracking of Danny's neck as he spun to stare at his partner was even louder than the rain. "_What?_ You-"

He stopped just in time to observe the black SUV halt lengthwise across the road in front of them, closing off any chance of escape. With a swear, Danny swerved to the right so they skidded to a halt at an angle to the opposing car.

Then the world exploded.

Spit out by machine guns, the bullets quickly ate up the exterior of the car. The windshield and side windows shattered on impact, spraying them with shards of glass. Danny yelled in pain as Martin's hand, no doubt trying to push his head out of sight, accidentally slammed it into the dashboard. He felt blood running through his hair, stinging his eyes, but he stayed down. The carnage continued for another half a minute, the car shaking as tires popped and bullets found their mark. Then the shooting stopped, and for a moment, all was silent.

It was all Danny could do to maintain a grip on the world as car doors slamming and footsteps announced the approach of at least three guys. As they drew near, he tried to focus on their conversation, though their rapid Spanish would have been hard to understand even when he hadn't just been shot at and his brain was functioning correctly.

"Ah, estos dos no son tan guapos como el último, verdad?"

_Ah, these two aren't as cute as the last one, yes?_

"Esto no va de lo guapos que son. Esto es acerca de lo importantes  
son."

_It's not about how cute they are. It's about how important they are._

"Cierto. Ahora, a cuál de ellos dijo?"

_Right. Now which one did he say?_

"No lo dijo. Se suponía que había sólo uno."

_He didn't. There was only supposed to be one._

"Cojamos a este." _Let's take this one._ Someone pushed him upright. "El tiene menos heridas." _He's less damaged._

"No por mucho tiempo." _Not by much._

"No." The tone was authoritative, establishing the man's leadership. "Éste. Él necesita a este. Le reconozco." _This one. He needs this one. I recognize him._

One of them protested, and Danny's stomach turned to ice at his words. "Espero que no le necesite por mucho tiempo. Parece que nos hemos entusiasmado un poco, verdad?" _Hope he doesn't need him for long. Looks like we got a bit carried away, yes?_

The leader replied without hesitation, borderline irritated. "No. Éste parece fuerte. Con una herida como esa, yo le daría un día como mucho." _No. This one looks strong. With a wound like that, I'd give him a day._ Noting his colleagues' hesitation, his voice became more severe in volume. "Mira, él dijo que quiere a uno. Le llevamos a este. Ahora vámonos antes de que alguien venga." _Look, he said he wants this one, we bring him this one. Now let's go, before someone comes._

Amid a mixture of grumbling and words of assent, Danny heard them extracting Martin from the cruiser, as well as the loud thump when something of considerable mass hit the pavement. Then the leader spoke again.

"Deshazte del coche. No necesitamos que alguien lo encuentre." _Get rid of the car. We don't need someone to find it._

"¿Qué hacemos con el otro?" _What about the other one?_

"Déjale. No le necesitamos." _Leave him. We don't need him._

Car doors slammed, and an engine roared. It took three solid hits to push the car past the overhang; after that, gravity took hold. The ground and the sky took turns being on top as the car flipped once, then twice. Danny was tossed around like a rag doll, lacking both the energy and organization to do anything else. Finally, the car groaned, coming to a halt on its side. A few isolated noises, and then screeching tires marked the thugs' getaway. Everything was quiet again.

With a moan and a sigh of defeat, Danny laid his head back against the headrest and let the world dissolve slowly into darkness.


	2. Reflections

6

**2. Reflections**

_"Dammit, Elena! I don't need this right now! You stupid-"_

_Staring out the window at the pouring rain, he paid little attention to his parents' fighting. If it could be called that; his mother just sat there, crying, a hand over her mouth. His father's Spanish filled the car, hurting his ears, but he tried to tune him out. The sky was so pretty today, so many different blues…_

_"And you!"_

_That was when he turned his head to look at his father. Everyone always said how much he looked like the man, and yet he hoped he'd never look like he did now; face red, cheeks hot, eyes glaring holes through everything. Bored, he looked back out the window. A slap rang across his cheek, but strangely, he felt the pain all over. _

_"Look at me, Danny!" He didn't .Another few slaps resulted. His mother finally got up the courage to speak._

_"No! Leave him alone-"_

_His father hit her. Just punched her, like it was nothing. He was paying attention now. _

"Cut it out, Dad…"

"What's he saying?"

"I don't know. Sounds like Spanish."

_The man turned on him as his mother curled into a ball on her seat. He'd always remembered that face, and what his father had said, remembered it like yesterday._

_"You idiot boy! Doesn't even know how to pull his weight in this family. Doesn't care about his family- he let his brother get into trouble before him, and look where Alejandro is now! You'll never be a man, you little-"_

"No, no… I didn't mean to…"

"Danny? Danny."

"I don't think he can hear you, Jack."

_But what he remembered most clearly of all, even more so than his father's face, was the humongous shipping truck that had appeared in the windshield behind the face. The colors painted on the side were bright red and white, and showed a smiling cow leaning on a cardboard milk carton. They flashed wetly in the headlights before they smashed through the windshield, through his parents, and into him._

For what seemed like an eternity, he sat there, in the seat of that old car, all those years ago, waiting. Waiting for someone to come, waiting for his mother to wake up. All the while, his father's glazed, dead eyes gazed at him accusingly as they wept crimson. All of his mother he could see was her hand, sticking out from under the dash. Later he found out that that had not been connected to the rest of her, and was the biggest recognizable piece they could find.

But just as it had so many years ago, the night came, swift and terrible, to make their macabre faces (or what was left of them) so much more frightening. Just as he had then, he'd closed his eyes and willed someone to come. And just as they had then, someone did come.

It was the crunch of shoes on shattered glass that alerted him to their presence. His eyes drifting open, he made out the bur of color that was their face. That was not the woman who had come to him, all those years ago, the one will the golden curls and blue eyes and the Pampers clutched in her hand.

No, it wasn't even a woman, and _he_ wore a uniform, and a bright light on his head that burned his eyes. Shutting them quickly, he lay still. Then someone was pulling him from the wrecked car, laying him down on something soft. Gradually, he began to pick up voices, shouting back and forth to one another. His sluggish brain worked feverishly to understand what they were saying; it was all so confusing… this hadn't happened before…

"Hispanic male, 35…"

"… for a pulse?"

"Unsteady… 25 to 30 BPM…"

"What do we got?"

"Multiple shrapnel wounds… hemorrhaging from the mouth and head… possible concussion…"

"Unconscious… breathing unstable…"

Someone was pumping up and down on his chest, trying to force air into his lungs. It wasn't working, he noted. There was a voice in his ear then, loud and echoing weirdly, unfamiliar.

"Sir, if you can hear me, you need to breathe, all right?"

He tried. A weak, pitiful coughing fit ensued, nonetheless wracking his body. The voices became even more urgent.

"…blood… possible case of hemoptysis…"

Something was pressed over his mouth, giving him strength: an oxygen mask. He was moving, but not on his own, being lifted, lifted into something. Doors slammed. An engine revved. A siren sounded. There was a buzz around him -- or was it in his head? -- two people talking, not to him, but about him. Then one spoke to him directly, closer than any of the others had been.

"Breathe. Danny, you have to breathe. Come on, Danny…"

Very carefully, very cautiously, he began to, his breaths short and shallow but nonetheless there. The light that met his eyes when he first opened them stung fiercely with its intensity, illuminating anxious faces that were peering at him through the darkness. Separating into individual blobs, it sharpened into the interior of an ambulance, as well as a pale, drawn face he recognized immediately. His voice was weak and pained, but still clear.

"Jack?"

The oxygen mask distorted his voice beyond recognition. On the third try, he managed to raise a leaden hand to grope at his face, to pull it off. He barely managed it before a hand caught his, much stronger and controlled.

"Jack? Jack, what the hell is going on? Where am I…?"

His boss's gaze, with relief, found his.

"I'm here. Just take it easy. You're… hurt."

Shifting weakly, he tried to make sense of what had happened. It came running back to him like a loyal dog. The drive, the hit men, Martin…

Martin.

He sat up, a remarkable feat, especially with Jack's hand on his shoulder, pushing him down. "They took him, Jack… I need to go find him, he needs help, they shot him-"

Healthy and whole as he was, Jack pushed him back down. "Jeez, I said take it-" He stopped, his brow wrinkling as he processed his agent's comment. "Who?"

"Martin. They've got Martin."

"What are you talking about? Martin called in sick just before they called me about you." Jack shook his head. "What the hell happened? There was at least five clips in your car, and I'm not talking about the stuff in the glove box."

"It was the Spanish guys. They had guns…" Danny trailed off, unsure of what to think. Something dawned on him.

"Was it Martin who called?"

"No. It was his father."

"What time is it?"

Puzzled, Jack glanced at his watch. "Ten of six."

"Dammit. Six hours already. That leaves… eighteen." His breathing quickened as dizziness floated through his head. Jack steadied him, his eyes like a mother's.

"Easy. You've lost a lot of blood." Jack stopped for a minute, scrutinizing his injured agent. "Look, I'll get Sam to take Martin some soup. In the meantime, I want you to get checked out; not a lot of people walk away from these kind of accidents. After that, come in when you feel up to it."

Danny hesitated for a moment, as if planning to disobey, to insist that he was fine and the blood he'd just coughed up was nothing, but he sighed and gave up, nodding and closing his eyes. "All right."

The ambulance howled on through the streets of Manhattan.


	3. Six Feet Under and Three Steps Back

Hey there! Sorry it took so long to update. If anyone would help me with my awful Spanish, it would be much appreciated. I haven't watched the show for a while, so the voices might be a little off, but oh well...

Just in case you couldn't tell from my awful dialogue, I do not own Without a Trace or anything involved with it. I do not write for it, and I never will. This is purely for entertainment and is otherwise original.

Enjoy!

**3.1. Six Feet Under...**

As Sam climbed the last step of the stairs to Martin's apartment, she stopped, shifting the grocery bag on her hip so as to make it more comfortable to carry. Jack had told her to take Martin some soup; she'd listened, and she'd taken the liberty of adding a package of saltines. And some tea. And coffee grounds with sweetener. And wine. Now her calves were regretting this.

Again she stopped in front of his door to shift the load so as to have one hand free. Tentatively, she reached out her hand and knocked.

At the touch, the door swung open to reveal the shattered apartment. Furniture was overturned; there were papers scattered all over the floor, and the desk and bookshelf had been smashed. And in the middle of it all lay the cherry on the sundae; a dark pool of semi-dried blood.

The bag dropped, and the wine bottle smashed upon impact with the floor.

**3.2. ...and Three Steps Back**

Through some tricks and connections, it was only two when Danny finally got into the office. It seemed at first like an average day, the usual balance of work and socialization. He was about to interrupt that balance.

Vivian was the first to see him, her hands laden with papers and files that she discarded upon seeing him. As she approached, her eyes jumped to the bandage taped over where his head had slammed into the dash.

"Oh my god. Are you okay?"

He smiled as he stopped in front of her. "I'm fine. Better than I look, at least."

Looking him up and down, she frowned slightly. "You shouldn't be here. If Jack catches you-"

"I'm fine, Viv. Really."

"That's not what I mean. Sam went to Martin's apartment, and it's torn apart." She sighed. "He's really gone."

Danny's stomach turned to ice as she continued.

"Look, you should go home and get some rest. We've got the father flying in from D.C. He won't want to see you, take my word for it. Besides, Jack'll send you home anyway."

The man in question turned the corner just then. Danny stared. It looked like he'd aged another ten years in a few hours. Catching sight of Danny, he stopped, closed his eyes, and opened them again, as if he were expecting him not to be there anymore. It didn't work. Resuming his brisk walk, he Grabbed Danny by the arm and took him aside.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm here to do my job, Jack."

"Your job right now is to stay out of trouble. We don't know yet who or what they really wanted, you or Martin. There's a detail waiting for you at your apartment, and that's where you need to stay."

Jack turned to leave. "Come on, Jack, don't do this to me—"

"Do what? Make sure I don't lose another agent today?" He sighed in frustration and rubbed his forehead. "Just go home, Danny."

"But Jack, I can help. I still need to give my statement, look at mug shots—"

Jack spun around and pushed him against the wall. Danny stared into angry eyes with astonishment. "My patience is wearing thin. Go home and get your head straight, and then we can talk."

Releasing him, Jack strode off towards the office, leaving Danny to collect his thoughts alone.


	4. Letters to Myself

4

**4. Letters to Myself**

Danny let out a sigh as the car drifted down the Manhattan streets. Jack's orders echoed in his head, and his jumbled sense of reason begged him to follow them so it could take a holiday. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind, carefully slowing the car to a halt before parallel-parking it in front of the six-story walkup. The last time he'd been here, he had been dropping off one very drunk and giggly Martin. Martin. The name banished the ghost of a grin he might have otherwise managed at the memory.

Slamming the door, he found his sunglasses and put them on, the tinted lenses helping to hide the emptiness in his eyes. He paused briefly to survey the black SUV parked in the next spot over. Sam was still here, then; he didn't know if he could deal with her at the moment, but it would have to happen sometime. Entering the building, he groaned as he looked up to see the hundreds of stairs he had yet to climb, stretching on for what seemed like forever. On the stairwell before him materialized a grinning young man.

"Why is it that no one in a walkup ever lives on the first two floors?"

"Vampires," he muttered quietly, taking a cautious step towards the apparition, but it evanesced, leaving nothing but the deep sense of guilt that had plagued him ever since the accident. His mind spun with memories as he methodically trudged up three flights of stairs and down a long hall to come to a halt in front of a cheap white door numbered 312. It hung ajar just a tad; he pushed it open further to admit him and was immediately faced with the sight of Sam, sitting on an unattractive brown wooly couch. Her back was to the door, but Danny could tell she was crying from the way her small form was shaking.

He stood for a moment, silently contemplating what to do amidst the gasps and sniffles from the couch. Quietly, he rapped on the door with his knuckles, and Sam jumped in surprise, dropping the picture frame she'd been clutching and stumbling to her feet.

"Danny." She sounded half relieved, half embarrassed; her hands fussed nervously with her hair, rubbing at her reddened eyes absentmindedly. "Did Jack send you?"

He hesitated, then decided to run with the lie. "Uh, yeah."

They sat in an awkward silence.

"You okay?" ventured Danny.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so," she stammered.

Avoiding her eyes while she collected herself, Danny stared around at the apartment. He'd never seen it in its normal state, but it was pretty clear the place had been ransacked. Not that there was much to ransack; the ugly brown sofa sat in the middle of the desolate space, the sad king of a sad world. A lamp lay shattered on the floor beside it, but this would seem the only damage done until one looked behind it. A once-beautiful cherry desk sat overturned by a broken window, the papers that lay strewn about it rustling in the draft from the shattered pane. Most of them were stuck together with a brown substance that warped the pages – blood.

Kneeling, Danny poked through them halfheartedly; bank statements, old checks, and other assorted forms stared innocently back at him. He unstuck a Christmas card from the pile – Santa's suit wasn't the only thing that was red – and flipped it open. It was from his aunt, maybe three months after they had found her, back when she'd been in good health. He tossed it back on the pile and stood as Sam broke the silence.

"I just found it like this. Two days ago, everything was fine, and now…"

Danny's mind clicked into investigator mode. "Two days ago?"

"We had dinner. He was really happy about something, but he wouldn't tell me what." She bent down to retrieve the picture frame she'd dropped earlier as Danny returned to the couch; it held a photo of Martin with his aunt, wearing a graduation cap and his trademark grin.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Danny's eyes leapt expectantly to the cordless resting in its cradle on the kitchen counter, but Sam pulled out her cell and flipped it open, dashing his hopes.

"Jack, hey," he heard her say as he made his way over to the cramped kitchen space, his eye on the flashing NEW MESSAGE light on the cradle. He pushed the button beneath it and put his ear to the speaker to hear the voice over Sam's conversation. A thrill of adrenaline went through him as he recognized Martin's voice.

"Hey, you, its you. Just calling to remind you to call back Mike before the next ice age hits. Oh, and get your computer fixed; it's jammed up on something." Click.

He had only a moment to process the information before Sam's voice brought him back to reality.

"Forensics? All right… no I'm not alone." The incredulous tone with which this was said made him look up; anticipating what she would say, he made wild slashing gestures across his throat, but it was too late. "Danny's here." Her eyebrows, which had been cocked in puzzlement, went up in mock surprise. She covered the speaker with her hand and shot him a you're-gonna-get-it look. "I've never heard him use that word before."

Looking sour, he snatched the phone from her outstretched hand and held it an inch from his ear to avoid being deafened by the profanity-spitting hydra on the other end.

"What the hell are you doing there? I told you to go home, Danny."

"Jack, I…"

"Never mind. If you want something to do, get back to the office. I have someone for you to interview."

"Sure, Jack." The call ended. Letting out the breath he'd been holding, he handed the cell phone back to Sam, who looked at him expectantly.

"I have to get back to the office. Jack's got something for me to do."

She shot him a suspicious look. "I thought Jack wanted you out of this."

He shrugged and went for the door. On the threshold, he looked back. "You gonna be all right alone?"

She waved him off. "Fine. A forensics team's on the way to… investigate."

Shutting the door, he made off down the hall, pausing only briefly at the top of the stairs before starting his descent.


	5. Head Games and Under the Skin

Sorry this update comes so late. With school getting crazy, they might be a bit far between...

Enjoy this one for now!

**5.1. Head Games**

The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ring that grated on Danny's nerves; he'd only started down the hall that led to the office when the door to one of the conference rooms opened and Jack strode from it. Something was very clearly up, and yet the shadow that seemed to follow him around these days lifted upon sighting his agent.

"Danny." There was something in his eye that Danny didn't quite like. "You take over. I've had about as much as I can handle." He held the door open for him and gestured hi inside. He obliged him, and Jack followed him in, shutting the door behind them both.

The man sitting in the chair in front of Jack's desk could be described with one word: neat. He wore a neat black suit with a neat blue tie, his hair combed over neatly. Even the wrinkles around his eyes seemed to be organized for effect. He wore an irritable expression, his foot tapping lightly with impatience; he glanced quickly at his Rolex watch before folding his hands – neatly – on the desk. When the door shut, he looked up, surveying Danny with a mix of curiosity and distaste.

"And who might this be, Jack?"

"I'm Special Agent Taylor," he said slowly, holding out his hand.

The man took it with a tight smile. "Victor Fitzgerald, deputy director of the FBI."

Danny almost choked.

"Y-you're--?

"Martin's father? Yes, I am. And you would be his partner, am I correct?"

"Yes, I worked with your son, sir," he replied, still recovering.

"Now you see, that bothers me, Agent Taylor," said Victor, rising from his seat with his arms crossed.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"You said your 'worked' with him – past tense." He stared pointedly at him. "Surely, you don't think that's necessary?"

He scrambled for a response. "Sir, at this point in the investigation, we don't yet have enough information to support that circumstance—"

Victor approached him, brooding like a jungle cat… a hungry cat. "Don't shoot excuses at me, boy; I wrote most of them myself."

That shut him up.

"Now I understand you were present at the time of the abduction?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you can confirm he was injured at that time?"

He gulped down the emotion building gin his throat. "Yes, sir."

"Why was Martin taken, rather than you?"

That was the question he'd been dreading, the question he'd asked himself over and over, but to which the answer was…

"I don't know, sir."

Victor studied him carefully for a minute, scrutinizing every detail of his expression. Then he made for the door, turning on the threshold.

"Agent Taylor?" he addressed him.

"Yes, sir?"

His gaze was hard. "If anything happens to my son, I will hold you personally responsible."

With that, he was gone. Danny sank into the chair Victor had previously occupied, his head in his hands. IT was all coming back, all the things he'd tried so hard to forget: the gunshots, the scream of people and tires, the smell of blood and burnt rubber… Shutting the door quietly, Jack approached him cautiously.

"Danny." His tone was almost gentle. "Danny, I'm sorry, but you need to understand you're not the only one who's paying attention to this. It hit all of us hard." He put a hand on his shoulder. "Right now, I need you doing what you do best, and that's your job."

He nodded obediently, still reeling from Victor's mandate.

"Viv's already working on background, but he's swamped. I'm going to meet up with Sam at Martin's apartment. I need you to pull recent records – spending, phone, the whole nine yards."

Incredulous, he glanced up. "Desk work? I thought I was supposed to be doing my job, Jack."

Sighing, Jack ran a nervous hand through his hair. "I wouldn't have you here at all if Victor wasn't pushing this along. You should not be out in the field right now, period. Now go."

Glad to escape the office, he pushed his way out the door, sweeping down the hall to the office while Jack watched through the glass with a steady eye.

**5.2. Under the Skin**

An hour later, he had little to show for his work than the twenty-seven program collage that covered his computer screen three times over. On top rested his latest endeavor: phone records. Not that they were particularly extensive; in fact, it seemed a miracle that Martin knew anyone at all. Pages and pages of one particular phone number made up the last six weeks of his activity.

"He's called his Aunt Bonnie fifty-something times in the last six weeks," he observed out loud.

Viv grunted in response. "Well, if my second mother had a fatal disease and less than six months to live, I'd be checking up on her pretty often too." She rifled through the papers that covered most of the previously free surfaces in the office. " Did you know he graduated from Harvard?"

"Really?"

"Class of 1998; left with a JD in law. Seems a little overqualified for White Collar in Seattle."

"Father wanted to keep an eye on him, probably." He pushed away the memories of earlier at the mention. Then a number on the screen caught his eye. "Hang on a minute, I think, I've got something."

Viv laid down her papers and came to peer over his shoulder.

"If he has a degree in law, why did he call this lawyer…" he drifted off as he stopped to count, "five times in the last two weeks?"

Viv's eyebrows went up. "Who's the lawyer?"

Danny pulled up a different window, a database, and searched the number. "A guy named James Helvoy."

"You got an address?" she asked, crossing to the chair to grab her coat.

"Right here," he said scribbling it down on his notepad.

"Let's go pay. Mr. Helvoy a visit."


	6. Dirty Little Secret

Hey there! I ha ddecided to take a break from FF for a while, but it's too much fun to give up. Anyway, here's the next installment, short but sweet, dedicated to all those people out there who pestered me for it!

Read, smile, and review!

**6. Dirty Little Secret**

The law offices of Mr. James T. Helvoy were not a particularly impressive sight. Tucked away in a dark corner on the third floor, Danny's first impression of the place consisted of an old, battered door upon which was fastened a well-worn plaque stating the owner's name and credentials. This he approached with a neutral expression; Helvoy might not be rolling in it, but the state of the door suggested overuse rather than neglect.

Opening the door for Viv, he motioned her in and did a quick sweep of the room. A window let in slivers of light through closed shades on the far wall, illuminating stacks of books on ever surface. Several filing cabinets sat open, revealing their manila guts and paper tongues to passerby. Two bookshelves stacked with additional volumes served to frame the room's centerpiece, a large, unruly work desk of some design. Danny could barely discern its shape, with all the odd papers hanging off of it; as he shut the door behind him, a man's face popped up from behind the unruly stacks. With cropped dark hair framing a worry-creased face, he looked to be in his early thirties.

"Can I help you?" His voice was deeper than Danny had expected.

"Yes," replied Viv, flashing her badge. "I'm Agent Johnson of the FBI, this is Agent Taylor. We'd like to ask you some questions about a client of yours."

The knot of uncertainty that was the man's brow unraveled. "You guys are from the FBI."

It was Viv's turn to look confused. "Yes. Missing Persons division."

Helvoy put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "Well, I know one missing person you guys should be looking for. Name's Martin Fitzgerald."

Danny instantly went on the offensive. "How would you know Martin's missing?"

Unfazed, Helvoy shrugged. "He missed an appointment with me today. If I know anything about Martin, he'd never blow off something like this."

"You sound like you know him," offered Viv.

"We were at Harvard around the same time. Met him a couple of years in. Nice guy. Dedicated, dependable, punctual…" He trailed off. "Something happen to him? On the job, maybe?"

"He was kidnapped last night," replied Viv, puzzled by his response. "Why would you think he'd run into trouble?"

"Oh, he's just been barking up the wrong tree lately," Helvoy remarked, then added softly to himself, "I warned him this wouldn't end well…"

"So he was one of your clients?" asked Viv.

He nodded slowly.

"What did Matin need with a lawyer?" she pushed.

Helvoy crossed his arms. "You know I can't tell you that. Attorney-client privilege." Catching sight of Danny flipping through a filing cabinet, he crossed the room quickly and slammed it shut, sitting on it to deter further probing.

"Mr. Helvoy, Agent Fitzgerald's life could be in danger. We need to know if he was in trouble."

Helvoy considered them for a moment. His tone was quiet and guarded when he spoke.

"I'm not telling you anything—" he began, and Danny started to interrupt, but Helvoy waved him off. "I'm not telling you anything as his lawyer. This si me speaking as his friend, all right?"

Vivian nodded and pulled out her notepad.

"He wasn't in trouble that I knew of, but at the rate he was going, I'm not s surprised he is now. Too many old faces turning up."

Danny gestured for him to continue. "'Old faces'? Did it have something to do with one of his old cases?"

"No. It was a bit closer to home than that."

Danny was tired of playing charades, and he was getting ready to berate Helvoy when something Martin had said hit him.

"One word, starts with F, rhymes with 'bother'," he said quietly to himself.

"What?" asked Helvoy.

"Nothing," Danny replied hastily. "Thank you for your time."

He ushered Viv out without another word until the door closed behind them.

"What was that about?" asked Viv, annoyed.

"It's about his father," Danny said simply.

"What?"

"It makes sense. Why would Martin be using some backwater lawyer when his dad could foot the bill for the best of the best? He even told me, int he car, before everything. He said he was trying to open a case on his father."

"You're serious?"

"Come on, Viv -- do you see how intense Victor's been about this case?"

"His son is missing and possibly dying, Danny," pointed out Viv. She regretted it instantly when she saw the guilt return to his eyes. "All right. Run it down. But let's get back to the office first."

Nodding eagerly, Danny started down the stairs with his brain singing; he was about to have a very interesting conversation with Victor Fitzgerald.

Straightening his suit jacket, he crossed his arms and crossed the street, wading through the growing cold of afternoon in New York City until he was safe in the warmth of the FBI sedan. Slipping into the driver's seat, he revved the engine, waited briefly for Viv, and then pulled out onto the dead back road.

A few seconds later, unbeknownst to him, a black SUV pulled out and cruised down the road after them…


End file.
